Dementia
by Naoki-the-dreamer
Summary: Many people long for the power of the Brawl fighters – and some will kill to obtain it. Obsession, ambition, and dark beauty all come together as a band of misfit Brawlers race to their freedoms - and quite possibly their deaths.


**~Pit~

* * *

**

The sky was a waxy blue, cloudless. Teetering at the edge of the roof, standing on the brink of nothingness, Pit could appreciate its wholesome beauty more than anything else. It stretched on forever – an open invitation. His wings itched impatiently as he tiptoed forward, tingling with excitement – perhaps fear – and longing to ride with the wind –

"Pit?"

Caught by surprise, Pit spun on the spot, nearly losing his balance. He grasped at the nearest sturdy object – the shoulder of the newcomer – to hold himself in place.

"Um," said the owner of the shoulder. "Ow?"

Pit glanced up into the face of Red, the Pokémon trainer. "Oh," he said, reddening and straightening up. "Sorry."

"What are you doing up here?"

"Nothing," said Pit, turning reluctantly away from the radiance of the sky. "Just admiring the view, I guess."

"No, you weren't," said Red shrewdly. "You were going to fly, weren't you?"

"So what if I was?" said Pit defensively.

"Master Hand told you not to."

Pit narrowed his eyes. "You're nosy, aren't you?"

"Well, you're on my team tomorrow!" said Red snappishly. "You think I want my teammate to get hurt in some stupid accident?"

"I won't get hurt," Pit said, but Red wasn't listening.

"It's been almost a month since I've lost a battle. I don't want you to ruin that. Besides, aren't your wings, like, freakishly small for an angel or something? Is that why you can't fly for a long time?"

"Who told you that?" said Pit miserably, while his heart gave a morose lurch.

"So it's true," said Red, looking satisfied. "Well, come downstairs before you hurt yourself. I want to discuss some battle tactics that I –"

At that moment, the wind suddenly kicked up around them, gusting shingles off of the roof in its severity. The edges of the sharp, blustering wind caught Pit's wings and dragged him like a rag doll, pitching and rolling. He struggled, but his strength was quickly blown out like a candle flame in a hurricane and he was tossed easily off of the roof. The ground rushed up to meet his face.

SMASH.

There was a sickening crunch, accompanied by a hot, searing, nauseating pain.

Dazed, Pit tried to lift his head, but it was pinned to damp earth by forces unseen. He gradually dimly aware of two things – the muscles of his left wing screaming soundlessly in the agony, and the undeniable taste of blood welling in his mouth.

"Holy hell!" a voice cried thinly, from far away. "Pit?"

Footsteps.

A long shadow fell over him.

"Pit, it's me," said the voice again. Unsurprisingly, it was Red. "Jesus! Are you okay?"

Pit rolled slightly to his side, blinking, and spat blood on the ground. "Does it _look _like I'm okay?"

"No." Red wrung his hands in agitation. "What do I do? What am I supposed to do? Did you break something? Oh, my God, Pit, you're bleeding."

"Really?" said Pit sarcastically.

Red started to pace, pale. "There's blood everywhere." He clamped a hand to his forehead. "I seriously think I'm going to throw up."

Pit writhed on the ground, pain throbbing unbearably in his wing. He groaned.

"What's wrong with your wing?" said Red suddenly, staring at it with large, terrified eyes.

"I don't know!" Pit snarled. "I can't see it!"

"It's all bent the wrong way. Christ, what the hell just _happened?"_

"Red, will you go get help? _Now?"_

"Right," said Red uncertainly. "Help. Okay. Hang on. I'll be back."

Pale and sickened, he turned and rushed in the direction of the Mansion. Pit hugged himself, curled up into a ball on the ground. He could feel his pulse thudding steadily in the distorted wing, bringing a sear of pain with each rabbit-like heartbeat. Several lifetimes seemed to pass before Red returned, pulling a harried-looking Peach behind him.

"Oh, no," Peach murmured, bending down beside Pit. "What happened?"

"The wind pulled me off the roof," Pit whispered. "It caught my wings."

"Look at all the blood!" said Red, his voice ripping through three octaves.

"Well," said Peach softly, touching his injured wing with the lightest of touches, like gossamer, "your wing is broken in five, maybe six different places. You've got a lot of cuts too…"

Pit tasted more blood and considered. "I think I bit my tongue, too."

"Does this hurt?" said Peach, prodding his broken wing.

"Yeah."

She did it again, lighter this time. "What about that?"

"Not as much. But it still hurts."

"Hold tight," she told him. "Red and I are going to carry you to the medical center. It – it might hurt a little…"

Pit knew that when doctors and nurses told you "it might pinch" or "it might hurt a little", it meant they were going to torture you. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, relaxing all his muscles.

"Red, for heaven's sake. Uncover your eyes. You're going to need both hands."

Pit heard Red moan slightly as he obliged. Then, the ground disappeared from under him. He tried to fantasize that he was flying, but all he felt was throbbing pain radiate through him. Every nerve in his body may as well have been connected to the wing.

Somebody stumbled, jostling his injury; Pit screamed and struggled, kicking one unfortunate person in the face.

Red shouted out in pain. "Pit, what was that f –" He stopped dead. Then, almost unnoticeably, he started to shake – Pit could feel the trembling of his hands. "I'm bleeding. Peach, I'm bleeding. Oh my God. Oh my God."

"Your nose is bleeding," said Peach calmly. "It's not a big deal. That's easily fixable."

Red's voice edged towards hysteria. "I. Am. Bleeding. _There's blood running down my face! _Christ! There's blood running out of my goddam nose!"

"Will you please stop spewing profanities?" said Peach tartly.

"It just ran into my mouth! Peach, help! Stop it from bleeding! It tastes – it tastes horrible –"

"Oh, come on, Red. Are you really _that _afraid of blood?"

Her question was answered when Red keeled over, dropping Pit's upper half on the ground. Unimaginable pain shot up and down his back, and Pit started to scream again, blindly struggling to get himself upright –

Peach darted over to lift him up, dropping his feet. Mercifully, a group of curious Brawlers were nearby and came over to help carry them both inside. The last thing he remembered was the sound of the Mansion bells ringing, signaling lunchtime – each toll vibrated through his skull, and it calmed him like a healing mantra. He lost himself in them, in their safe, painless oblivion, and knew no more.

* * *

It must have been hours later that Pit surfaced from the darkness.

The burning white of the walls filled his vision. He blinked, bringing the room into better focus, and realized that he was in the medical center, the Mansion's personal hospital. He tried to move his left wing; it feebly twitched. The pain was exquisite for such a small movement. Feeling sick, Pit let it lay limp and cast his eyes around for something interesting to look at. They settled on Red, who was drinking soda and watching the television screen suspended over his bed.

"Hey," said Pit.

"Oh, you're awake," said Red without looking at him. "Hey, guess what? Turns out Ilia is a psychotic control freak and Pauline's a hoarder. Who knew?"

It took Pit a moment to realize that his friend was talking about the TV show.

"Weird," Pit murmured.

Red glanced at him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Master Hand summoned me," said Red, watching him out of the corner of his eye. "Since you're all jacked up, I have to be with Wario." Red gave a resigned sigh. "The guy gets so distracted in battle…it's terrible."

"Sorry," said Pit. He wondered if Red was trying to make him feel bad.

"It's not your fault. Oh…wait." Red glowered at him, hectic bright spots appearing on his face. _"It is."_

Irritated, Pit returned his glare and said angrily, "It's not my fault I have wings."

"Yeah, but you were on the roof! This wouldn't have happened if you were on the ground or inside, like you should have been!"

"Red," said Pit, closing his eyes. "Just…shut up. Please."

"Fine," said Red waspishly, getting to his feet and shutting off the TV. "But I hope you realize that you just ruined the Championship tournament for me."

"I already said I was sorry!" Pit snapped, craning his neck to keep Red in view.

"There are going to be reporters all over the Mansion!" said Red furiously. "This tournament is going to be broadcasted all over the world, Pit." He moaned. "_All over the world. _I can't express how _big _this is going to be. I can't lose my first battle. I just can't."

For some inexplicable reason, this really got under Pit's skin. He felt his anger flare and he said, more icily than he intended, "Well, maybe if you were a better fighter, you wouldn't have to depend on a partner so much."

Red stared at him. He opened his mouth and closed it again, soundlessly, like a fish, and then marched out of the medical center with his nose in the air.

Pit felt bad as soon as his friend had left, but not bad enough to apologize. He adjusted himself comfortably on the bed and prayed that he would recover. He was hoping that maybe, somewhere, Palutena was listening.

But all he heard in response was the faint whispering of the rain.

* * *

*** Hey guys! I hoped you liked the first chapter. As a side note, the perspectives are going to be switching back and forth. Only between two characters though, so it shouldn't be confusing. DISCLAIMER: I don't own SSBB! Please review...I live off of them! :)**


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